


Long Odds

by Mohini



Series: Bits and Pieces [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War, Vomiting, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 16:44:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13955772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: He would know that voice in a thousand lifetimes, but the odds of hearing it now, those are long indeed.





	Long Odds

Steve’s on his way out the door when he very nearly runs straight into the guy. He’s got his head down, shoulders tight, and a million to one Steve would say he’s not been out of the desert more than a month. 

“Shit, sorry man, I didn’t see you there,” the guy mutters and though the voice is deeper than it was the last time he heard it, Steve would know it anywhere. Problem is, the man it belongs to went MIA presumed dead two years ago. 

Steve’s boots suddenly weigh about a thousand pounds each and his mouth might as well be glued shut for the amount of effort it takes to get the question out. “Bucky?”

“Stevie?” the voice that answers him is suspicious as hell, but there is an undertone of hope there and Steve doesn’t think twice before wrapping his arms around his oldest and dearest friend, the man he mourned two years ago, whose empty casket he carried to a grave in Brooklyn. 

“Yeah, Buck. Yeah,” he says, as the other man melts into him. He finds that he’s holding him up, that Bucky’s breathing too fast, too shallow, and every inch of Steve just wants to pick him up and carry him somewhere safe. 

“Stevie,” Bucky whispers, “my Stevie.”

“Always, Buck,” Steve reassures him, walking them backwards, slow and steady toward one of the benches that line the atrium. He’s grateful that the security guards here have pretty well seen every sort of crazy and no one’s staring. 

He gets Bucky safely sitting down, eases him into a recovery position, knees spread and elbows on them, head cradled in his hands while Steve coaches him to breathe, to take his time, that he’s not going anywhere and that they’re safe here. It takes Bucky as shockingly short amount of time to be back in control of himself and when he sits up and looks at Steve again, there’s not a trace of the panic Steve just witnessed.

“You with me now?” he asks, just to be sure.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good now. Damn, that’s, wow, um, what are the chances, Steve?”

“Of my dead best friend walking right into me in the atrium of the VA? Gonna have to say those are some very long odds, Buck.”

“I tried to find you,” Bucky answers softly. 

“Can you tell me where you’ve been?”

Bucky just shakes his head. 

“We can play twenty questions, black ops edition later then,” Steve replies. That gets him a small smile, at least. It also confirms the assumption he’s already made that Bucky got tapped for something big and ugly when he went radio silent back in the desert. 

“Where were you headed today?”

“Exit counseling. Mandatory. Some guy name by the name of Wilson.”

“Sam? He’s a good guy. Friend of mine, actually. You want company on the way up?”

“Yeah, thanks. Um, would you mind to hang around? I, shit Steve, I mean, if you don’t have anything you need to be doing.”

“I’ll stick around until you’re done. Where are you staying?”

Bucky looks immediately at the floor and Steve knows better than to even try pressing further. He definitely wouldn’t be the first guy freshly home to not exactly have a home to head to. Mrs. Barnes died when they were kids and Becca died the year after they buried that casket. 

“If you need a place, I’ve got a spare bedroom,” Steve says softly. 

“Yeah, that’d be, yeah, thanks,” Bucky tells him, his voice little more than a breath.

Two hours later, they’re heading out of the VA. Bucky looks badly rattled, but he tells Steve it’s all good, that he’s all set up with counseling services and he gets to be a standard issue slightly fucked up veteran now. 

“You look wiped out,” Steve comments once they’re clear of the building itself. 

“It’s been a long couple weeks,” Bucky admits.

Steve’s suddenly doing the math. There was a team that was decommissioned three weeks ago. Everyone in the triskelion heard about it, even though it was technically a non-existent team to begin with. 

“How long, exactly, have you been back?” Steve asks, though he is pretty sure he knows the answer. While he wasn’t there, he was part of the mission planning for the extraction of a unit that was eyeballs deep in a situation the US isn’t about to admit to even knowing exists much less the degree of their involvement. 

“I’ve been on US soil 18 days,” Buckys replies calmly. That fully cements Steve’s theory. Out-processing should have taken a considerably longer amount of time, especially given what he knows about what that unit was involved in. But when you have people on missions slightly to the far side of more than black ops, sometimes the participants get dropped like hot rocks before anyone has a chance to connect the dots. 

They’ve arrived at Steve’s bike when it occurs to him that he didn’t actually ask Bucky if he had a car with him. He looks over at him and Bucky just smiles.

“Some things never change. My shit’s still in storage, I’ve been using the subway and cabs. Let’s go see this place of yours,” Bucky tells him, straddling the beast of chrome and metal and wrapping his arms around Steve’s back. He outright laughs when Steve deposits his own helmet on Bucky’s head.

“I’ve spent two years declared dead, Stevie. Pretty sure I’m immortal at this point.”

“Humor me.”

A moment later, Bucky’s behind him, arms wrapped around his waist and they’re off. Steve’s used to compensating for wobbly riders, but Bucky’s so attuned to movement of the bike it’s like he’s not even there. The irony of that observation isn’t lost on Steve. It takes about twenty minutes to reach his building, and every last one of those minutes is spent reminding himself that his Bucky has been in a sand filled hell for two years with no outside contact. He’s fairly certain no one comes away from that without some deep scars.

It’s pretty clear as they climb the steps to Steve’s place that Bucky is dangerously exhausted. “You looked wiped, man,” Steve comments as he turns the key and swing open the front door. 

“Feel it,” Bucky mumbles.

“Why don’t you go catch some sleep? We can talk later.”

Bucky watches him as though testing for some fallacy in the offer before nodding and muttering that sleep would be nice. Steve shows him to his room, telling him that there’s no way he’s making the guy sleep on the couch and he’s not completely sure when he last changed the guest room sheets. Bucky’s eyes are closed all of ten seconds after he hits the soft surface and Steve tugs a couple of blankets up and over him, boots and all. 

Steve’s in the kitchen sticking lasagna in the oven a few hours later when he hears it, and if he wasn’t what he is, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But he’s been part of the retrieval team too many times, and saw too much horror before that, to not have a few dozen skeletons knocking around in his own head. 

He stands in the doorway, calling Bucky’s name. He doesn’t know what the other man is capable of, but doesn’t doubt that if startled he will act in survival mode. Given what Steve knows of the soldiers selected for the nonexistent project half-jokingly referred to as Cold Soldiers for their close working ties with a similarly nonexistent Russian unit, he is sure that Bucky could do serious damage even mostly asleep. He has to fight hard not to rush into the room and gather the other man into his arms, especially as Bucky whimpers softly in his uneasy sleep.

It doesn’t work, no matter how sharp Steve’s tone becomes. About the time he remembers that the covert teams are typically trained to filter out any and all nonessential sensory input, Bucky shoots upright with wide, wild eyes. On autopilot, he’s surveying the room for threat when his eyes lock onto Steve. 

“Hey, Bucky,” Steve calls to him, hoping he’s awake enough to process. “Mind if I come a little closer? I won’t touch you.”

“Stevie?” Bucky asks, his voice trembling.

“Yeah, Buck. S’just me. We’re in my apartment. Can I come in there?”

Bucky nods, biting his lower lip and pulling his knees to his chest. There’s nothing about him that looks a bit like a kid, which makes the childlike positioning even more disconcerting. Steve moves slowly, making sure the other man can easily track his movement. When he gets to the bed, he sits carefully, doing his best not to touch Bucky without express permission. Turns out that isn’t so much as issue, since Bucky launches himself into his lap and wraps around him like an octopus. 

“You’re real,” he murmurs, over and over and he clings tight. He’s trembling, his breathing uneven, and pretty soon Steve’s got his arms wrapped tight around him as well. 

“Shh, shh, shhh, I’ve got you, Bucky,” Steve repeats endlessly, hoping that Bucky’s going to come down from this as easily as he did back at the VA. 

It takes a little longer, but Bucky relaxes incrementally until he’s limp as a kitten, head resting on Steve’s shoulder as he breathing slows and his eyes drift shut once more. Steve debates for a few minutes before shifting the pair of them to lie down, quietly telling the mostly asleep Bucky that he was just getting him settled back in the bed, that everything was still just fine. When he was sure that Bucky was well asleep again, he slipped out of the bed and left the room after tucking him safely back under the covers to stay warm. Now that he’d had a lapful of him, it was obvious that Bucky was very thin. Steve recalled documents indicating that one of the soldiers had spent some time in an enemy holding facility. It was a large part of why the unit was decommissioned. Once one member was considered compromised, the whole team was yanked out of the field. Some were discharged, some filtered to other units. The man who had been pulled out of the holding facility had been found mere days before the extraction of the team. Reports had indicated extensive injuries consistent with torture and starvation. If he had to guess, he was pretty sure Bucky was that soldier. 

The next time Bucky woke up, it was to the scent of lasagna permeating the apartment. He wandered out into the main living area to find Steve reading a book with the radio playing in the background. Steve rose to greet him, and Bucky clung tightly when he hugged him. “Thanks,” he whispered. “Usually can’t get myself back to sleep after one of those.”

“You look exhausted,” Steve commented. “Let’s get you fed and we can watch shit TV for a bit before bed, if that’s alright with you?”

“When should I expect that game of 20 questions?”

“Mind if I skip the easy shit and just ask?” 

“Sure, if it gets it over with faster. I can’t answer much, though.”

“You were part of Cold Soldiers,” Steve says, more statement than question, though Bucky does nod in agreement that it’s correct. “Is your call-sign Winter?”

Bucky’s eyes go wide at that, and he nods again. “How the hell do you know that?”

“I work for the triskelion,” Steve explains. “Mission planning and extraction advisement are my area, mostly. I don’t go in the field much anymore.”

“That explains so much,” Bucky mutters. “I could have sworn I heard your voice a few times, back there. Thought I was just running on way too much adrenaline and not nearly enough rest, though.”

“Probably was me. Your voices were always encrypted, something about us not getting too attached to voices that sounded like a bunch of robots.”

“I can believe that,” Bucky said ruefully. 

They were saved from any further awkwardness along that line of discussion by the oven timer. It was much like the days before they both joined the service, back when they shared a crappy apartment in Brooklyn and cooked together like two parts of a whole. They each sat down to heaping plates of cheese and tomato covered pasta, bowls of salad, and slices of thick bread. When Bucky teased him for being able to put on a feast for an unexpected guest, Steve admitted to the lasagna and bread having come from the freezer. It didn’t escape his notice that Bucky mostly moved the food around his plate, making it look as though he had eaten more than he actually consumed. 

After, they were in the living room settled on the couch with the TV on when Steve noticed Bucky was squirming as though he couldn’t find a comfortable position. “You alright?” he asked after watching him shift around for a while.

“Yeah, yeah, fine. Think I ate too much, though. You got any antacids around here?”

Steve hopped up and went to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of chewable antacids and some water, handing both over and apologizing for not asking if Bucky would have wanted something lighter.

“I’ll be fine, Stevie,” Bucky assured him, one hand rubbing at his slightly distended gut as he leaned his head back against the couch. “Bit of indigestion is hardly going to kill me off.”

Half an hour later, it was obvious the antacids hadn’t done much good. Bucky was clearly trying to hide it, but one hand was pressed against his belly and his breathing had gone eerily slow and measured. He was pale, starting to sweat, and if Steve looked closely, he could see him swallowing a little more often than was strictly normal. 

“Bucky? You don’t look so good there,” Steve told him, reaching over and putting one hand against Bucky’s forearm.

“Feeling kinda rough,” Bucky admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

“You want to try lying down? Might help.”

Bucky shook his head slowly. “Don’t wanna move,” he said between clenched teeth. Steve considered arguing, then decided to just go get the poor guy a bucket. This was obviously not going to end well. 

When he returned, Bucky’s eyes were screwed shut and he was barely breathing as he held himself impossibly still. Steve put the bucket in his lap, guiding his arms around it and gently pressing Bucky forward so he was leaning over it enough to be sure there wouldn’t be a mess. 

“Just breathe, love,” Steve coached quietly, rubbing Bucky’s back just between his shoulder blades.

Bucky shook his head, whimpering. 

“Open your mouth, Bucky, come on, you’re making this so much harder than it has to be,” Steve told him. It had been like this when they were young and Bucky would have too much to drink. He’d fight it until his body finally took over and it was always so much worse for him than it needed to be. 

“Hurts,” Bucky groaned back, teeth still clenched. His shoulders were starting to hitch with barely suppressed heaves and Steve knew he wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer. He pushed him forward just a little more, until Bucky’s feet were planted firmly on the ground and he was leaning fully into the bucket clutched in his arms. 

“ I’ll be right here, Bucky, right here with you,” Steve reminded him, rubbing his back a little more forcefully, effectively rocking him side to side a bit. Bucky’s breathing was a near continuous whimper now, and when he finally took a breath in, his body lurched forward and a torrent of vomit splattered the inside of the bucket. It went on for a while, with Bucky’s stomach contracting violently and his breathing reduced to desperate gasps between heaves.

When it tapered down into unproductive retching, Steve spoke softly to him, reminding him where he was, that he was safe, that he was just sick. When he’d gone a few minutes without trying to vomit again, Steve tugged the bucket away and placed it within reach on the floor before easing Bucky into a well supported position against him. He was trembling all over, breathing shaky and face tear streaked.

“Shh, I’ve got you. We’re in my apartment, right here in the city, safe and sound love, safe and sound. You ate a little more than your gut wanted is all. Shh, everything’s fine now,” he repeated over and over. He has read the reports, knew what the documents found in the holding facility said. Bucky had been subjected to harsh purgatives in retribution for his refusal to provide information on his unit. This could not be bringing back good memories at all.

Bucky cried for a long while, and when he was quiet he was mostly asleep in Steve’s arms. Deciding that trying to move him was probably a poor choice, Steve stayed there on the couch with his lost friend warm and safe against him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm toying with different ways to bring Bucky home. Do me a favor and if you have any actual knowledge of how out-processing works, shhhhhh! Time frames of reality and actual protocols don't get to live in my not so happy little land of alternate, alternate reality.


End file.
